Loving Men-Vincent (Reality)

Vincent and I have been silent for the past week. We had been burning bright like a well ignited fireplace, and then someone doused us with water.

A week ago we sat in the back seat of a friends car and went to McFaddenville, NC to spy Christmas lights. We were affectionate, pancaking or waffling hands, placing my head in his lap.

And two days later, the affection waned, like a cold front moved through and dampened our heat wave. I assumed it was me: That I’d said something wrong or pushed to hard or was too affectionate or told him I loved him too soon or that I wanted to sleep together too often: something dramatically changed.

Vincent stopped calling; stopped texting; stopped dating. We were stopped like rush hour: bumper to bumper but no advancement; anger, rage, and frustration.

And then the reason came late last night by way of a telephone call: It wasn’t me, it wasn’t Vincent, it wasn’t someone else; it was a thing.